"You'll figure it out, stellina," he murmurs against my hair. "You'll decide who you want to be."
The irony doesn't escape me. The man who controls everything offering me this one choice. But maybe that's the point. Maybe the only identity that matters now is the one I choose to build from these broken pieces.
I pull back enough to look at him, this beautiful monster who's reshaping me with every passing day. "What if I choose to be someone you don't like?"
His smile is dangerous and tender at once. "Impossible. Every version of you belongs to me."
His lips brush my forehead, gentle in a way that makes my chest ache.
"Show me the stars tonight," Alessandro says against my hair. "Show me what Emma Rosetti sees in them."
His hand slides from my back to my hip, grip tightening possessively as he pulls me flush against him. I feel his arousal pressing against my stomach, and my body responds instantly, heat pooling between my thighs.
"And one night, maybe not tonight, but one night soon, after you've shown me every constellation you love," his voice drops to that dangerous whisper that makes my whole body clench with need, "I'll teach you new ways to see stars."
He stands, pulling me up with him, his hands spanning my waist. His mouth finds my ear, breath hot against my skin. "On your knees, stellina. Under Perseus and Andromeda. Where you'll learn exactly what Emma Rosetti was born to become."
My legs threaten to give out at the dark promise in his voice. His thumb strokes along my ribcage, just below my breast, and I arch into his touch without meaning to.
"No more pretending, no more fighting,” he continues. “Just you surrendering to what we both know you crave."
His hand slides up my throat, fingers wrapping around it gently but with unmistakable possession. My pulse hammers against his palm, and he smiles that dangerous smile that makes me wet.
"Soon, Emma, you're going to beg for your corruption. And I'm going to give you exactly what you need. What only I can giveyou." His thumb presses against my pulse point. "Every dark thing you've been dreaming about since our wedding night."
I can't breathe, can't think, can only feel the promise of what's coming. The stars that once meant escape now become witnesses to my willing destruction.
"Soon," I whisper, the word sealing my fate.
His smile turns predatory, satisfied. "Good girl.”
13 - Alessandro
“You don’t have to do this, stellina,” I murmur as our black Mercedes approaches St.Mary’s Cemetery, but Emma’s jaw is set with that same stubborn determination that first caught my attention on our wedding night.
Tony, my driver, navigates through the cemetery gates smoothly, taking the long route while I scan for threats. Three cars followed us from the mansion: two expected security, one silver sedan that makes my hand drift toward the Glock tucked against my ribs. The morning sun cuts harsh angles through the trees, making everything look stripped and exposed. Perfect weather for secrets to slip through cracks.
Emma sits beside me in designer black, a veil obscuring her face but not hiding the tremor in her hands. The silk whispers wealth with every movement. But underneath that expensive armor, Emma is breaking. The real woman I married, not the performance.
"Mariam was my friend," she says, voice steady despite the tears I know are threatening. "We used to sneak apples together out of the kitchen while Mrs.Panbury wasn't looking."
I study her profile through the black mesh of her veil, this woman who insists on walking into danger to honor a dead friend. Most wives in my world wouldn't even know their servants' names, let alone risk exposure to attend their funerals. The way she grips her purse, knuckles white with suppressed grief, makes something dark coil in my chest. When she'svulnerable like this, trembling with barely contained emotion, my cock stirs despite the setting. I'm sick enough to get hard from her need for my protection.
"The Hewsons will be here," I remind her, though she already knows. "They'll test you."
"Let them." There's steel in her voice now, the same steel I've been slowly uncovering beneath her performed submission. "I need to say goodbye."
The cemetery spreads before us, headstones like broken teeth against manicured grass. A dry June wind carries the smell of fresh-turned earth and dying flowers. Near the back, where the plots are smaller and stones simpler, a gathering of black-clad figures surrounds a wooden casket. Nothing elaborate, just pine boards and brass handles that will tarnish within months.
I scan the assembled mourners as Tony parks, my mind already calculating escape routes and potential weapons. That headstone could crack a skull. The funeral stand holding flowers: metal, sharp edges. Servants from various households fill the space, their postures speaking of long hours and tired bones. Several I recognize from the wedding preparation, their faces cycling through confusion as they spot what appears to be the Hewson daughter emerging from my Mercedes.
"Remember," I say, taking Emma's arm as we exit, "you barely knew her. A kind servant who brought you tea. Nothing more. And you can't let any of the other servants see your face. Keep your veil down."
She nods, but I feel the tension thrumming through her body where it presses against mine. Each of these servants knows Emma, not Frances. Any one of them could destroy her with a single misplaced greeting. My fingers tighten possessively on her arm. The thought of anyone exposing her makes violence pool in my gut, dark and eager.
We approach the grave slowly, my hand on her lower back. Let everyone see that Frances Rosetti is under my protection.
"Mr.and Mrs.Rosetti," one of the servants, an older woman with work-worn hands, starts to say something, then stops, confusion clouding her features as she recognizes something familiar yet wrong about my wife's face.
